Goal: To examine moment when change was possible, but declined.
What to do: 1. Think of a time when you (or a character) made a negative decision: chose not to do something, go somewhere, not to act in a certain way.
2. Write it down precisely: where were you (or your character), what were you wearing, what did you say and do?
Alice LaPlante, I have gone with you on this journey to the Land of the Written Word for three chapters, but here in Chapter Four -where the hero of the story should begin to see the dark storm clouds of approaching conflict on the not-to-distant horizon- I find my conflict is with you. Here is sit in black socks that have been on my feet so long the bottoms are hard and shiny like Grandpa’s slippers, and a yellow jock strap, thankfully clean since no one likes rotten crotch, cursing you and your E.D.-the-moment-after-I-finish-sewing-this-poppet husband to spin off your axes and languish like the timeline in which I unhesitatingly replied “YES!” to your existential writing assignment as detailed above. For in the end, Dear Lady of the Book, my defiant “No!” flies at you like sneeze spray torpedoed from the puggish nose of Andrea Bocelli; I will not accept your invitation to change!
The salty bouquet of Fritos wafts across my laptop, heralding my dog’s arrival. One can almost sense the drool. Sudden and somewhat moist weight on my thigh draws my attention, and I see he is resting his alligator-sized head on my lap as if to say, “Give ‘er hell, Dad!” Oh, dear Hogan, it is given.
If anyone doubts that the religious, social and political climate in the United States has taken a turn towards the theocratic, you’re either not paying attention or you’re an idiot. Four Republcian presidential candidates were told by God to run for the highest governmental office in the land (hysterically enough to make one doubt the power or existence of an Omnipotent Divinity, all but one have vanished from the scene and he’s a few altos short of a choir (see below for his most recent vileness), and the remaining all have pledged their utmost to undo marriage equality, abortion, and porn. Catholic Churches, who take money from the public, are preaching that the government is engaging in religious oppression, when they are actually asking the Church to follow the law or stop sucking on the taxpayers’ teat. Some would rather cut services than have their beliefs sullied, which is respectable on one level, but on another, I know that priests eat lobster and shrimp (and I don’t mean just young boys’ toes), so cherry-picking which crass and irrelevant parts of the Bible are best to inflict on the 21st century is just hypocrisy at its most blatant.
None of that, however, approaches the eisegetical theocracy which Bishop Eddie Long envisions himself leading. Long is “Bishop” of the New Birth Missionary Baptist Church in Georgia, a megachurch that seats 10,000 God-botherers every Sunday (most interestingly, their “About Us” page reads like a financial statement and not an disclosure of their Christ-like works (I refuse to link to it)). He has also recently become famous for what many male religious authority figures famous for: boy-fucking. Yet for reasons I cannot fathom, bishop Long has not only been forgiven by his flock, but in a ceremony that both terrifies and nauseates, was also declared “King” by Rabbi Ralph Messer, who called Long “humble” (the almost-real hair tapestry on his head notwithstanding, one assumes) and also referred to the Torah mantle as a “foreskin”. If you have 15 minutes to kill, hate life, and think LSD is “meh”, watch and be prepared to have your mind blown:
If this looks only like a particularly vulgar piece of theatre to you, which it is, you’re missing the significance of being wrapped in the Torah and given the belt which binds the scroll: Eddie Long was just declared the Messiah. But what good has he done? What good to the world is he? And the answer is the same: “Nothing.” He has, however, stepped up the game of Race to Fundamentalism to a new and horrifying level. Presidential candidates (indeed, some Presidents, too) can only talk to God, but Long now is God. He has taken to himself the mantle and responsibility of Savior, and with a congregation of 250,000 to back that claim up (I assume the other 240,000 who were unable to get tickets to this performance are of fervor equal to those who were in attendance for this charlatan’s apotheosis), so where does that leave the other players on the board? Will Michelle Bachmann have to get Long on speed dial if she intends to keep her Christian cred? Will Long’s reign be a benign one or will his followers take to the streets to declare the return of Christ and cull away “non-believers”? Does lispy Tim Tebow have to pay Long royalties on every righteous touchdown? I see nothing good coming of this. But of late, I feel the same about any brand of theology: they will be the ruin of us all. Better to let something like The Second Coming happen -God dies and we’re left to our own devices and our own fates without anyone to shift blame towards- and forget about It on all levels. Whatever It might be, if It is, I cannot believe these people are Its Voice. I refuse to believe it. Is this the best It can muster as a representative? I hate these people. I hate them as they claim to speak for It. I hate them in Its Name. The idea of hating anyone makes me feel like I’ve failed as a human being, but these people push me past all endurance. Their crass, inhumane religion of sociopathy actually brings me to tears. I hear them and think, “Things would be so much better if we eradicated ourselves from the face of the planet!” They make me hate humanity.
And for that, they can go to Hell.
Then I think, “What if they do speak for It? What if their words are indeed an accurate expression of the Infinite’s Will and All?”
Well, then I will go to Hell. Willingly.
You know me; I like to shop locally and keep small businesses afloat rather than keep CEOs in vacation homes and andriod mistresses. I only ask that businesses be worthy of my support.
Monday was the last day for one of my staff members, Alex. Alex is a really good kid and a dedicated worker who with some more job and life experiences would be a benefit to any organization he worked for. I’d have liked to see him stay on for a while longer, but there was never a chance working in a group home could compete with his dream of going to the police academy coming true. When a staff member leaves, or if I owe someone for a favor, I go to International Bakery and get some sweetie to pass along -and let me say how fantastic the sweets at IB are; Magnolia Bakery isn’t worthy enough to flour IB’s cutting boards- because I find such treats always put the recipient more in debt to me than I was to them. Or they just, you know, think I was a good supervisor. Which I try to be. However, I was running late on my errands and didn’t have time to cross town to get to IB, and then remembered a bakery next to my favorite Chinese restaurant (Golden Wok, if you’re ever in Erie) and made my way there.
How a place with a name as adorable as Tasty Bakes could be run by such a shrew is going to take some cogitation on my part to answer.
As I approached the door, I saw the neon OPEN sign was not lit, but there were people inside. I hesitated for a moment, checked the hours posted on the door, and based on the information listed there, decided I could go in. The bell jangled and four people squished around a pub table that wouldn’t have seated one comfortably did nothing except keep talking. This was obviously a staff meeting. A woman with a squat forest green chef’s hat, a calculator and notepad positioned in front of her I could tell she was in charge because her energy felt like reins directing the room. She was also the only one not pressed against a wall or refrigerator. I can understand the idea of wanting a place for people to sit down and enjoy a scone (if they had scones, but I’ll get to that), but given the space restrictions, it would have either been an intimate scone or a lonely one.
There were no brownies. No blondies. No cupcakes. No fabulous fruit tarts. In fact, the whole display case was rather impoverished of selection – a few cookies, slices of cakes, and some sad cream puffs, like a housing development that boasted only a model and wide swaths of mud between one or two finished homes. Ultimately, nothing I wanted and not enough of any one product to present to Alex and the guys at the house and the rest of the staff. I reminded myself I was short on time and this was my only choice. I settled on the cream puffs, of which there were three.
In the time it took me to absorb all this information, no one had acknowledge my presence, whether to say, “Someone will be right with you!” or “I’m sorry, we’re closed right now.” The meeting continued apace and I floundered for an exit line. Stay and hope there would be a break or walk out an feel like an asshole? The feeling-like-an-asshole thing should not have been something I took upon myself since I was not behaving outside of acceptable social norms. In fact, I was being subjected to a mysterious, anti-customer silence which still boggles.
After two minutes of unwelcoming neglect, a man came form the back of the store and asked me if there was anything he could get me. I asked him if he had anymore cream puffs. He thought for a moments, then said, “Let me ask.” and walked over to interrupt the meeting. “Excuse me. Are there more cream puffs beside the ones on display?”
Without even looking at her employee, Ms. Chef’s Hat tersely replied, “Isn’t there a refrigerator you could be checking?”
And I left. I went to International Bakery, where I wanted to go in the first place, and accepted that I would be late. I knew, however, that the cupcakes I was buying would mitigate any possible complaints. Perhaps it’s endemic to Erie, where I hear most small business owners are either tertiary syphillis-levels of unreasonable or just straight up sociopaths, but I never encountered it in Austin (if indeed any business in Austin can be classified as “small”). How do businesses run as such survive? Things like this make me think I could run a business and do well at it. I just need to figure what that business would be: sandwich cart? Noodle bowl truck? Whatever it is, come support me! I swear I’ll at least make eye contact with you!
The offending profiterole
The early settlers of Erie, PA had little to worry about from the American Indians living there. By the time the French had declared the area their property, the Erie Peoples had already lost a war with the Iriquois Nation, its members killed or dispersed to find haven with neighboring tribes. Whatever remnants were left behind would have gone mostly unnoticed by the French, who busied themselves building forts and watchtowers to defend their landhold against the British in the, how I wish I were kidding, Beaver Fur War. When the War was over and a town started to grown from the settlement, marked, unmarked and disappeared graves of Native peoples gave way to factories and stores and houses and backyards and, of course, churches and bars. Locals joke that after killing someone in a bar fight, you can cross the street for absolution. The real punchline is that you’d most likely only have to cross the bar.
People without imagination nor humor often refer to “Eerie, PA” without knowing that the dead lay everywhere citizens step. Nor do they know that in the weeks after the Autumnal Equinox as nights grow longer and days grow colder how werewolves pass through the area on their way to winter haunts. People who unluckily meet the packs have to beg the Cousins for the lives and make bloody promises to keep their paths a secret. The oldest cemetery, in the center of town, embowers a crypt in which a vampire is said to sleep. It can easily be spotted by the tangle of spray-painted occult symbols (some of which are real) and scorch marks inflicted by a zealous believer that mar its marble walls. Ask locals about the tall man in the black overcoat who walks the road between Waterford and Edinboro, and they’ll tell you how he vanishes as soon as you drive past him. And though the gypsies have long since abandoned Erie and Axe Murder Hollow has been built over by developers, the druids are still around.
Number of siblings I have… 1
How many grandparents are still alive… 0
How many of my parents are still alive… 1
How many nephews I have… 1
How many dogs I’ve had… 2
How many cats I’ve had… 6
How many hamsters I’ve had… 3
Number of serious boyfriends I’ve had… 7
Average length of serious relationships… 9.1 months
Number of times I’ve been in love… 3
How many terabytes of porn I’ve downloaded in four years… 1.3
Number of times I’ve read The Mists of Avalon… 8
Number of times I’ve watched Zorro, the Gay Blade… 46
Number of times I’ve watched Emmet Otter’s Jug-band Christmas… 104
Number of times I’ve watched Forrest Gump… 1
Number of times I’ve watched American Beauty… 0
How many jobs I’ve had since age 15… 26
How many cities I’ve lived in… 8
How many states I’ve lived in… 6
How many places (houses, dorms, apartments) I’ve lived in… 21
How many countries I’ve visited… 7
How many languages I’m fluent in… 2
Additional languages I’ve been exposed to but am not fluent in… 4
How many video game systems I’ve owned… 5
Current Xbox gamer points… 3365
My grandmother taught me… don’t doubt children who see things.
There was the stump of an apple tree in my grandparents’ backyard that was quite old and soft in the center. My brother and I -sometimes our cousins when they were visiting as well- would use it as a table or as a ersatz trampoline or a place to put our feet and count off who was It with rounds and rounds of King Sayer. In my mind, the stump was roughly the diameter of a redwood, knowing that it wasn’t in actuality any bigger than a large pizza. It had as many uses as we had ideas to task it with, then I got the idea to pick away the rotting center to make a fishbowl.
And that’s when things got scary.
As I was removing wood chips from the stump and tossing them to the ground, I uncovered part of something that -from what I could tell- looked like a toy bee, like the center spinner on a See n’ Say. I remember thinking, “How did a toy get in here? And who could have done it? Did they know I would find it? Is it for me? Oh, boy!” I started to sweep away the debris to get to the toy, but when I touched it -as plasticy shiny as it was, it was warm to my touch. And then it stirred and began to hum, buzzing like a real bee, but too large and too not natural. I waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaailed in that high-pitched screech that terrified five-year-old boys will later deny they can do when they turn seven. And ran in the house to my Grandma, who was struggling to get up from her place on the white living room couch. I threw my arms around Grandma’s waist and we toppled back to the couch. I blubbered out my story as best I could, but it was no more coherent than, “Something… *sniff* in the stump… it… it.. it BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”
My Grandma put her hands on my head and called out, “Mike! Michael!” My Grandpa came from upstairs. “Mike, get rid of that stump in the yard. Now!” He didn’t ask why or what I was crying about or anything. Grandma was in earnest He went down to his basement, got his axe, and destroyed the stump. I could see him chopping out the back from my Grandma’s lap. She had no reason to accept what I had said, had tried to say, but she did. She took action because she believed I was telling the truth and because she loved me. There’s really nothing in the world that matters so much to a child.
I’m a writer who doesn’t know how to write.
I still can’t fully explain the difference between Constructivism, Structuralism, and Post-modernism, and now – God, help me – there’s the New Sincerity to worry about.
I know how a story is supposed to go, and sometimes follow the “supposed to” too slavishly.
I have a better-than-average vocabulary, but often fall back on breezier words like “like”, “nuh-uh”, and “srsly”.
I can spot a theme in someone else’s work at 50 paces, but get lost exploring mine.
I think about my own writing a lot and how to improve, write more, write wider, but I don’t do much about it because I’m the only voice in my head and it’s hard to grow in an echo chamber.
I’ve been a lucky amateur so far, but if I ever want to be a better-than-Twilight writer (“better” in the literary sense, not in the financial success sense, however nice that would be), something had to happen.
And it did: I’m part of a writers’ group now, which may be the most difficult thing I’ve done in quite some time. My assignment from my peers, based on a writing sample is to “[w]rite about the things that you fear most. Be intimidated by the subject that you are writing about. Go outside of your comfort zone and explore the emotions/feelings/memories that you’ve maybe ignored or hidden.”
Right. That is so easy for me to do. Writers are all about putting themselves out there to be better writers. Nothing is hidden. Nothing is out-of-bounds. That’s me.
Ha. No, it’s not.
Let me tell you a story.
When I was a junior at IUP, I decided to spend the summer working at school rather than come home because I would be closer to my boyfriend at the time and we could spend the summer being in love and sickening our friends. The place I had been living was not available for the summer, and truth be told, I was going to leave anyway and find my first on-my-own apartment. Like any college town, Indiana had dozens of postings for summer sublets with the possibility of longer leases in the Fall. I pulled I don’t know how many tabs and left messages for all of them to have no one call me back. here’s what I said, “Hi! My name is Sean McGath and I’m calling about the room for rent. I can provide references if you need them, and I am going to tell you up front that I’m gay and have a boyfriend. I just want to be up front about that before we get too far into this process. I also want to tell you that we’re not screamers, so you’ll never know when we fuck. My number is XXX-XXXX. Thanks!”
Yes, I was that gay guy.
I am no longer that gay guy. I’m not even that guy anymore. By design. Yes, I was being honest and out there and truthful. But can you see where I went a step too far? I did, too. Not immediately, but eventually, the forthrightness and bluntness and words that would gush out of me like water from a firehose were crimped to a trickle. Now, I am demonstrative, not verbal. Putting actual feelings down on paper or across electrons is unseemly because it assumes that they are fit for the public to see or hear about and discuss. Or that anyone would even care to. I have probably lost a lot of dates because of this. Not for lack of trying. If you look at the post I made about a guy I have a crush on, it’s obvious I’m floundering to say something important and to say it right; the cracks in the crust that the words fall into to be dissolved in the lava below are huge and embarrassing.
Now I am compelled to write about me, which is something I have not wanted to do for a long time. And it’s going to suck. And my entries on this site are going to be wretched (maybe someone will even have the nerve to post and tell me so), but I’m going to do this for me. And my future millions. Which I’ll use to buy my family something pretty. But I’m not telling you what.
Over the last few weeks, I’ve been corresponding with a gentleman who saw the Weird City Theatre production of my “Giants in Those Days” way back in July, 2010 (several times, apparently), which is kind of amazing because to the best of my understanding no one saw it (though I was told a fascinating rumor that Mary Jo Pehl came to a performance (I suspect she was probably alone in the auditorium)). One of his reasons for writing was to he ask me for a copy of the script, which I at first demurred to do because I more than anyone realize the raw nature of the script and the too-serious tact of the production, and while the horse has already jumped the fence (and more than likely dead from some Wildfire-like accident), but eventually sent him a DOC copy of. I also hinted that there was a hardback version of the script, but it was a one-shot deal I secured for myself so I could had a semi-permanent copy to eviscerate at my leisure. He asked if there were a way for him to get a copy as well, so I contacted Ka-Blam and it became available today.
As chance to experiment in live theatre, there has been no parallel. As a work of mine, there are some really excellent moments and characters that I love. As a classic for the ages, well… Going back to the above said evisceration, I’ve thoroughly gutted the play and have started re-writing Act One as more of a “Super Friends”-type show that will not only have educational PSAs and crafts, but high adventure, dangerous traps, clumsy kid sidekicks, Miss Dawna’s bukkake obsession and other more contemporary superheroic foibles. Act Three will probably stand as is. Maybe.
